


Empty Spaces (Hollow Faces)

by tattooeddevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Post-Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean comes back from hell, things are a lot different than Sam ever anticipated. Later, he’ll wish he never asked why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Spaces (Hollow Faces)

Bobby’s words don’t make sense.

_Here._

_Not a demon._

_Yes, here._

_Zoned out._

_Not completely here._

_Doesn’t talk._

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

Not difficult to put together, but impossible to accept. No. Not after everything.

Bobby looks shell-shocked when he opens the door. Shell-shocked, pale, wide-eyed and downright shaken to the core. He opens his mouth to say something, but all words have already been said.

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

He is almost afraid to go in and see Dean. Almost, but not quite. His steps are hesitant; they take him through the narrow hallway to the living room where Dean is sitting.

Dean.

All hesitancy leaves his mind and body as soon as Sam is close enough to touch Dean though. He kneels in front of his brother - his unmarked, non-burnt, stone silent big brother - and stares at him for an eternity. He is unsure of what to do, Dean’s empty stare into space scaring him more than demons and monsters ever did.

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

He has to touch, he has to make sure Dean is still in the shell of his brother sitting on Bobby’s couch. His hands ache with the need to touch and soothe, even if his mind screams at him not to. It isn’t the first time he ignores his mind. He has to know.

He puts his hands on Dean’s face - warm, thank god - and tilts his head up. He has to know.

“Dean.”

Sam isn’t prepared for the lack of response. A soft hum that can be interpreted in a million different ways makes its way from Dean’s chest; maybe it isn’t in response to Sam at all. It breaks something inside of Sam, something big and heavy, and before he knows his body is going to move, he has Dean pressed against his chest awkwardly, as if that will heal him. Heal Dean.

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

*

“I miss him.”

Sam never thought three simple words could confuse him - scare him - as much as they do. His reaction spills from his lips faster than he can bite it back.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but you don’t.”

Dean insists he does, though, making cold dread settle deep in the pit of Sam’s stomach.

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

Dean remembers alright. Just not what Sam had hoped he remembers. He can’t even begin to understand what Hell must have been like, but for Dean to remember **that** and not Sam and Bobby? There is something extremely scary and terrifyingly final about that.

Dean looking at him like he is a stranger?

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

No. Just. No.

He swallows back the bile rising in his throat - not the time to freak out now - and changes the subject.

“You need to eat. Can you eat?”

Dean frowns and so does Sam. Why did he ask Dean that?

“I can do anything.”

Dean sounds like he doesn’t know what Sam is asking. Sam has to be honest with himself and admit he isn’t too sure what he is asking either. Dean’s answer is confusing though, as if someone has told Dean that time after time and now Dean is simply repeating it.

Sam stops that train of thought before it drives him mad.

He pulls out the bag of Doritos from his duffle and tears it open, handing it to a befuddled looking Dean. Dean takes the bag from him, to stare at it. At Sam, then at the bag. At Sam, at the bag. It breaks Sam’s heart all over again. This is not how it is supposed to be. Dean is supposed to tear into the bag with gusto, spewing little bits of chewed chips around when he talks and grinning at Sam’s disgusted scowl.

Dean is not supposed to look at a bag of chips as if it is something he’s never seen before.

The realization hurts. It actually, physically hurts his heart having to get Dean to open his mouth and shove some of the chips in. He watches his brother chew and taste cheese flavored Doritos for the very first time in his life.

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

It is almost impossible to read Dean’s face for something, anything remotely similar to an emotion. It’s as if Dean doesn’t feel, **can’t** feel. Foolishly, he blames the Doritos.

“I’m going to order a pizza, okay?”

“Pizza.”

Sam bites back the sadness, the disappointment.

“Yeah. You like pizza.”

“Okay.”

It’s not the response Sam wants. It’s not the response Sam expects. But Dean offers nothing else, and simply sits down on one of the queen-sized beds in the scraggly motel room Sam brought them to.

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

He wonders if this is what their new reality is now. If this is what Dean is now. Then he wonders what exactly Dean is now. Is he the big brother that used to kiss his scraped knees and tell him it would be okay? Is he the brother who got into fights because school bullies called his little brother names? Is he the hunter that came to catch him when his world fell down around him? Is he the strong arms that wrapped around him and the stupid, stupid mind who thought it would be a good idea to sell his soul and go to hell so that Sam could live?

None of it is answered with a yes. None of it is answered with a no. Sam would have settled for either; as it is, everything is silent, undecided, unsure.

*

“Time for bed, okay?”

Dean stares at him as if he doesn’t know what bedtime is.

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

“Take off your clothes.”

“Not your boxers.”

“Keep your shirt on.”

“Lay down, Dean.”

Dean looks so lost, so young.

Disconnected.

He simply does what Sam tells him to do. Undresses, gets in the bed, and lets Sam cover him with a blanket. Sam gets into the other bed stiffly. Hours later, he is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or have they all dropped already and he is just too turned around to feel the difference anymore?

Morning comes too soon and not soon enough. He hasn’t slept, and neither has Dean. They had just laid there, listening to each other breathing in the dark. Was it enough for Dean as it was enough for Sam? Dean had drifted off right before dawn and woke up not an hour later. Sam had spent it watching his brother breathe, thinking, wondering, deciding.

His brother breathed.

He thought about their father, their mother, Bobby and everything they already lost. Their destiny.

He ignored the messages on his phone.

He wondered what Dean was expecting when he woke up and glanced around the room with wide eyes.

He had decided he didn’t want to know.

“Time for breakfast. You can get whatever you want.”

Sam needs Dean to smirk and tell him he wants a bacon cheeseburger like always, he needs it like he needs air. He doesn’t get it. Why is he disappointed?

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

“Okay. What are you getting?”

“You don’t like what I’m getting.”

“Why not?”

Rationally Sam knows it won’t help things to argue, to get mad, but he can’t stop the helpless frustration rising in his chest. Bobby’s house, Bobby himself, the seedy motel room, pizza, chips, Sam. Nothing, not even Sam, is able to jolt something back in place in Dean.

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

Sam isn’t even sure if Dean remembers him, or if he just accepts Sam’s claim on him as his brother. It hurts to think the scale is tipping more towards acceptance than remembrance. He just wishes something, anything, would stick and somehow shock Dean back into being himself again. Being Dean again. Sam needs his brother back.

Sam takes a calming breath and rubs his temples in an effort to push the frustration down.

“Because you don’t. You like bacon. Pancakes. You want pancakes?”

Dean looks like he is listening to something Sam can’t hear. It scares him to think that Dean is listening to something he can’t hear. Then Dean answers.

“I don’t like pancakes.”

“Yes, you do.”

Sam doesn’t know why exactly, but it is very important Dean understands that. Admits it.

“I don’t want pancakes.”

Close enough, he takes it.

“Okay. Fine. Bacon?”

A look of panic slowly spreads over Dean’s features. It is terrifying to see the blood leave his face and his eyes go wide. They are fixed on something to Sam’s left and his head starts to shake minutely. Sam isn’t sure what he has done wrong, but he knows he’s done **something** to trigger this in Dean.

“Okay. Okay. No bacon. Toast, maybe?”

He watches Dean focus back on his face after a few long minutes, wide eyes still radiating panic, but some of the color is returning to his face.

“Toast.”

It feels like a victory, the passing of a test he didn’t know he was taking. A test he really doesn’t want to be taking, the opponent unknown and anonymous, but Sam has won this round. Dean’s smile is more a grimace and Sam chooses to take it for the smile it isn’t meant to be.

He suddenly wonders if he really has won anything.

*

The first sign comes when they get in the car. Sam watches Dean - does he remember the car, does he remember how to drive? - with hope he knows he shouldn’t be feeling. It gets squashed ruthlessly when Dean merely just stares at the car blankly before sliding in. Sam feels as though someone’s just punched him in the face, or maybe hit him over the head with a fifty-pound crowbar at Dean’s dismissal of his car. His baby. Sam has to take a few moments to tamp down the anger - the urge to rant and scream at the world for breaking his brother so horribly - and then gets into the car too.

“Did I mess up?”

Goodbye anger, hello heartbreak.

“No. No, you’re- okay. I just thought- that this would help. The car. You don’t remember the car.”

If he can hear the desperate tone in his own voice, than Dean can too. He’s always been able to read Sam like an open book, his tone of voice no different. Dean’s response is like a bucket of ice-cold water though.

“Should I?”

He chokes. He just chokes. Emotions get stuck in his throat, words piling on top of them, the lump trying to push its way through and all of it gets stuck in his throat.

_Doesn’t know._

_Doesn’t remember._

He wants to let it all out, scream at Dean that yes, he should remember the fucking car, their home for the past thirty-odd years. Yes, he should remember the wedged-in army man in the back, their names scratched in the door, the smell of the leather that’s taken up residence in both their heads as the smell of home and safety.

He must have made a sound, because the next thing Sam knows - feels - are Dean’s ice-cold fingers wrapping around his throat. They’re not squeezing, they’re just sitting there, curled around his throat, over his pulse point. Sam can feel his heart frantically beating against Dean’s fingertips, fear coursing through his veins. What is Dean doing? What is he thinking? Did he snap? Is he going to choke Sam to death? Rip his head off?

“You need to swallow it down.”

It is the first emotion Dean has shown since coming back. Curiosity mixed with sympathy. Like he’s seen it before, experienced it before, and he never thought he’d see it again. It’s terrifying, exciting, and confusing all at the same time.

And then the words hit him.

_You need to swallow it down._

He is afraid to ask. He is afraid Dean will answer. His mouth disagrees.

“Swallow what?”

Dean frowns as if Sam asked a stupid question. Sam guesses it is, to Dean. Which can only mean so many things. Again, Sam is afraid to ask why. He’s afraid Dean will answer.

Instead, he focuses on the lesser important things. Like how **there** Dean seems suddenly, how engaged, connected. He might be afraid to ask questions, but he’s not afraid to analyze what is happening with Dean. To Dean.

“The glass.”

Another piece falls into place. The puzzle is still too big and dark to fully see it, but the pieces are finally coming in. Listening to something that’s not there, watching something that’s invisible, glass where there’s no glass but merely emotions and pain.

This piece hurts when it slots into its assigned place. Sam has to close his eyes against the sudden wave of nausea on Dean’s behalf. A tiny piece, but enough to shed a larger light on the whole puzzle. He feels exhausted, drained, tired; imagines how Dean feels.

“No glass, Dean.”

Dean blinks.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Sympathy, determination, and curiosity make way for confusion, disappointment, and hesitant relief. Sam’s not sure what to make of it and then it’s gone again. The blank mask back in place, emotions deeply buried. Under what, Sam doesn’t know, but has to ask.

“What happened to you?”

It’s a good thing he wasn’t expecting an answer.

That night, he reads the messages on his phone. He doesn’t answer them.

******

That moment in the car jarred something for Dean. Enough for him to be more present, lucid. That doesn’t mean he’s functioning though. Every mundane little thing is a struggle. Eating; Dean looks at his toast as if it’s made of horse shit and maggots. Showering; Sam has to peel Dean’s clothes off to make sure he doesn’t get under the spray fully clothed. Talking; Dean says things randomly that have no meaning to Sam, but seem important to Dean. Sam might be ignoring the voice in his head telling him he knows damn well what Dean is talking about.

Something eases in Sam too. Dean responds to him, learns what Sam teaches him, goes to sleep when Sam turns off the lights. The hiccups of the day forgotten in favor of a few smiles and a cooperative brother.

Talk about tempting fate.

Dean’s screams pierce the darkness of the night. Sam jerks awake at 3am to a flailing, sobbing big brother in the next bed. Dean’s still fast asleep, alternately begging ‘come back, I need you’ and ‘stop, please stop, it hurts’. His throat sounds raw, flayed - _like shards of glass are jammed down there_ \- overused and painful. Sam shakes him by the shoulders, unsure if he should be touching Dean at all, but he just wants the screams to stop. He needs Dean to wake up and stop screaming.

“Dean, please! Dean!”

Dean startles awake with a gasp, wide, terrified eyes searching the darkness. For what, Sam’s not sure, but Dean looks disappointed almost, lost and panicked. He is shaking like a leaf, teeth chattering together, but his skin is hot. Too hot. Dean meets his eyes for a second before shifting around the room again. Searching.

“I need him. He can make this go away. Can you bring him back?”

Dean’s words hit Sam like a Mack truck. Another piece falling into place. A horrifying, dark as the night, huge piece made of sheer horror and fear. _Him_. Someone did this to Dean; someone’s responsible for breaking his brother so bad he’s terrified to live in the world he should be relieved to be back in.

No.

Anger surges up in Sam, a quick flash of burning hot fury spreading through his body like wildfire. He can feel his fingers clenching around Dean’s shoulders; his brother looks scared, wide eyes pleading with Sam to do something. _Bring him back_.

No.

Sam forces his fingers away from Dean’s shoulders, forces his heartbeat to stop beating from his chest, forces his face into something less furious. For Dean’s sake.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I’m not bringing _anyone_ , understand? It’s only me and you. Just me and you.”

“It’s not enough. I need it. I can’t do this without him.”

Dean’s voice is raspy, emotional, and it fills Sam with irrational relief. The words cut deep, burn him to his core, but Dean hasn’t been this coherent in days. Since he came back. Sam is surprised to feel tears well up in his own eyes.

“You can. You can, I promise. You’re strong. I can help.”

Sam shakes Dean by the shoulders again, promises - lies - falling from his lips in an attempt to get Dean back. Get him to **see** , know that Sam is going to kill whoever did this to Dean and Dean will survive. He **will** survive. Even if Sam doesn’t know how yet.

“You can’t. Only he can.”

“Who is _he_?”

Sam can hear the desperate tone in his voice, even with his mind screaming at him to stop asking, stop pushing, stop digging. Dean might answer.

What if Dean answers?

He doesn’t. He presses his lips together and screws his eyes shut. His entire body goes rigid under Sam’s grip and Sam quickly releases his now almost hyperventilating brother. Dean’s hands are curled into tight fists, and Sam is horrified to see blood seeping from between his fingers. He manages to croak out a warning to Dean.

Dean opens excited eyes and turns them to his forearms. His eyes widen with joy at the sight of his own blood and then he dissolves into peals of laughter. Sam takes a confused step back from the bed, watches Dean laugh around his name with growing dread.

_What happened to you?_

“Sam. This is right. It’s right.”

Something lifts from Dean’s eyes, but it makes Sam’s stomach roil nervously. What is right? The blood? Sam? Being back from hell? Sam wants to yell, scream, shake Dean until he’s normal again. He wants Dean to stop laughing maniacally, calling out Sam’s name, looking as if the best thing ever just happened to him. As if Sam isn’t freaking out.

No.

He needs to stop the bleeding. Dean lets him, the dangerously excited glint in his eyes not leaving.

“He’s coming back anyway. He wouldn’t leave me.”

It sounds like Dean’s looking forward to it. It sounds like an accusation, and it hurts. Bad.

_What happened to you?_

“What makes you think I will?”

Dean frowns. He’s looking past Sam again, eyes no longer searching the room, but just looking. Assessing. Thinking.

“I don’t think you should come.”

Sam doesn’t have to ask where. The anger morphs into sadness. Resignation.

“I’m not. And neither are you. You’re staying with me.”

_What happened to you?_

He tries to put his best ‘that’s-an-order’ voice, but it’s weak and he knows it too. Dean merely sighs and stays silent. The excited gleam in his eyes shifts into something Sam can’t quite decipher. All he knows is that the hope in his chest has died a little more, every piece of the puzzle that falls into place cutting a little deeper. Breaking Sam a little more.

One step forward, a thousand steps back.

It takes all of his willpower not to call her back.

******

The smile Dean throws him the next morning is so fake it’s heartbreaking, and Sam can’t help but spit out the first desperate thought that comes to mind.

“You can’t want to go back. You can’t. It’s - it’s _hell_. It’s horrible. You’re so messed up you don’t even realize how messed up you are.”

He wants to laugh like Dean did last night. Hysterical, crazy, out-of-his-mind, shattered, broken, exhausted. He does laugh, when Dean insists he is fixed. He wants to ask Dean how, when, why, but all that comes out is laughter. Incredulous laughter.

And then Dean drops the bombshell that destroys the entire puzzle. Sam’s hope. Dean’s sanity.

“Not down there. A long time. A long, long time.”

“How long?”

“A long time.”

Not months. Years. Fucking years.

He pushed too far, he knows that now. Not for Dean, but for himself. He pushed too far, dug too deep and now he can’t take it back. He can’t un-know, he can’t un-ask. He knows, he knows and he hates it. Hates himself. Hates Dean for telling him.

_What happened to you?_

He wishes he’d never asked.

He calls her back, but doesn’t agree to meet her. Not yet.

Two weeks. Two weeks it takes before he cracks. Two weeks of having to remind Dean to shower, sleep and eat. Dean does neither. It takes two weeks for Sam to crack and push again. One last time. One last try. One last effort before he gives in and takes what he is craving so badly.

“You should be better.”

“You shouldn’t be depressed after you got out.”

“You’re not supposed to be missing it.”

“What do you want?”

He begs Dean to tell him, to stop the thing inside him from eating him, to stop his mind spinning and driving him mad with every emotion he doesn’t know he has. Sam begs, asks, pleads, barters his way to Dean’s conscience.

“I need a chance to understand.”

 _To save you_. But he doesn’t say that.

Dean doesn’t say anything either. For a long time, Dean stays silent. It works, Sam gives up.

He makes the call.

Sam simply does whatever it takes to get Dean through the day. Remind him how to live, force him out of his night terrors, calm him down from an overwhelming memory of flesh, blood, and fire. He loses his patience with every passing minute, but he can’t blame Dean. He wants to, but he can’t. Someone needs to keep going.

He doesn’t even pretend to hate her anymore. He needs it too much.

It is worth it when Dean stops him on his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“I don’t - I don’t want to go back. And I’ll tell you what happened if you want.”

He can’t hide the eagerness in his eyes when he nods. He hopes it overrides the guilt that’s in there too.

******

END


End file.
